


got your black magic (i'm not trying to wake you up)

by ceserabeau



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: F/M, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-02-17
Updated: 2014-02-17
Packaged: 2018-01-12 20:13:45
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,726
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1198041
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ceserabeau/pseuds/ceserabeau
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Valentine's Day, and there's a bouquet of purple flowers on her windowsill. Not wolfsbane: tulips the colour of ripe plums, perfectly wrapped in a white silken ribbon. She knows she should throw them in the trash, but they end up in a vase on the dresser, an apology carefully positioned between photos of her pack.</p>
            </blockquote>





	got your black magic (i'm not trying to wake you up)

**Author's Note:**

> Title from _Pull A U_ by The Kills

1\. _all her tender limbs with terror shook_

He smashes through the window. Her screams follow him into the depth of the forest.

-

She's the perfect target, the weakest link; poor little Lydia, so clueless, so lonely. Minimum damage for maximum effect.

But when he gets up close, he can smell - oh, something wonderful. A perfect plan B.

-

She goes looking for her boyfriend and finds him instead, a monster in the body of a man. He smiles at her, all teeth, before he sinks them in.

 

 

2\. _we stood a moment so in a strange world_

His body is rotting away under the floorboards. So he reaches out in the dark, desperate; and surprise, surprise, who is this reaching back for him?

-

In the darkness, there is nothing and no one and nowhere. No light, no sound, no dreams. She floats in an unending sea of emptiness.

Until - there, something moving in the depths, something of shadows and shades. It flits around the edge of her consciousness, pushing at her, asking for entry. She feels a pull; somewhere in her gut, and lower. She reaches out, _take my hand_ ; and the darkness does.

-

He invades her.

-

A noise echoes in the darkness. A steady beep-beep-beep. It matches the rhythm of her heart.

It draws her up and up and up until she opens her eyes to a world tinted electric-blue.

 

 

3\. _like one in danger; cautious_

The first dream is a nightmare. Well, they're all nightmares. But the first one she thinks is _just_ a nightmare and nothing more.

-

Hands grabbing at her from under murky water. The padding of bare feet echoing through the hallways. A screaming face under a layer of ice. Bloody hands and bloody sheets. A Rorschach test in the shape of a face.

The doctors say it's all a side-effect of the medication, her body's way of processing trauma. She's not so sure.

-

One morning, she looks at herself in the mirror and the eyes staring back are not her own.

-

He's just her type: pretty, snarky, with just a touch of arrogance. She feels a pull towards him, attraction and something else. A connection, bone deep and electric and she wants.

So she follows where he leads, to a house in the woods, to an empty room, to a searing kiss.

When she opens her eyes, everything smells like burning.

-

He sits next to her, this burnt-up man, and curls himself around her like a lover. He brushes her hair back, runs his hands through it. He leans in and breathes her in, nose pressed into her curls. His lips brush the shell of her ear, soft like a whisper.

She closes her eyes and listens to his honey voice, tempting. He turns her chin with blackened fingers and leans in.

 

 

4\. _so subtly are our eyes beguiled_

Her mind is a strange place. Full of nooks and crannies where he can hide away. He sorts through her memories, her dreams and her desires. He gets to know her as few others seem to: intelligent, confident, charming, but also scared, _terrified_ , because there are so many things she doesn't understand.

So he wraps himself around her brain, inserts himself, until he is all she can seeheartouchtastesmell.

-

In her head, in her bed; everywhere she looks, he's there.

-

The Worm Moon approaches and she dances so beautifully to his tune.

-

They ask if she's okay, but they don't mean it. Not really. They have bigger things to worry about, badder things, and that's okay. Until it isn't.

-

It all goes according to plan. The punch is full of flowers and people are losing their minds. Derek falls in a haze of purple dust. She rigs mirrors to make moonlight dance around the room until it streams down into the pit.

He rises from the grave, eyes bluer than the sky. It's a shade she knows well.

-

All you have to do is every single thing I ask.

 

 

5\. _with the bloodhounds, die or survive_

She doesn't see him, not after he claws his way up out of the ground with her helping hands, but she can feel him. Deep in her bones, a faint ache that never really goes away. It's easy to ignore.

And then he opens the door.

-

She used to take pills to drown out the constant chatter of her brain, to force herself into the deepest sleep where the nightmares couldn't follow. She doesn't take pills anymore though, because the nightmares are very _very_ real.

-

Peter wants his Alpha back, she tells them one evening.

How do you know? they ask.

I just do, she says.

-

He comes to see her, lurking in the tree line at the bottom of the garden under the cover of night. The ache changes to a buzzing, amping up under her skin. His heartbeat echoes in her chest.

She calls his name into the dark. He's at her window before she can finish. Let me in, he says and reaches out for her.

She slams the window shut on his twitching fingers.

-

Aiden is a welcome distraction from the disaster that is her waking life. He doesn't coddle her like the others do, doesn't try to protect her from himself or anyone else. Instead he pushes, bruises, leaves her wrecked but in a good way.

When he bites her shoulder, she can't help seeing Peter's face.

-

You.

Me.

-

She screams now. When it tears up her throat and out into the air, she feels _powerful_.

The only other time she feels like that is when his gaze rests heavy on her from across the room.

 

 

6\. _brings such satisfaction to the craving in my bones_

The pack doesn't like him. They still see him as creepy Uncle Peter who tried to kill them all once upon a time, and that kind of grudge is hard to let go of.

He hangs around anyway, annoys them as much as he can, gives them the most cryptic answers possible, because it's what he does. He enjoys their frustration; any little victory now that he's starting to lose any hope of getting his Alpha back, what with Scott's red-eyed glare following him wherever he goes.

He only leaves when Lydia turns away from him, resolute.

-

When she dreams of him now it's still as violent, as brutal, as twisted, but she can't help reaching out for him when she wakes. She knows that on the other side of town, he's doing the exact same thing.

-

He never thought it would go beyond his resurrection.

-

They don't speak unless absolutely necessary. When she looks at him, he feels the scream fighting its way up her throat. When he looks at her, she feels the apologies on the tip of his tongue.

-

The couch smells like raging hormones and pent-up sexual frustration, and somewhere under that, the calming fragrance of her shampoo.

-

Why is Peter looking at you like that? Stiles asks with a sidelong glance at where Peter is leaning against the window, watching them with dark eyes.

Because I'm gorgeous, she jokes. From the twitch of Peter's lips, she knows she hit the mark.

-

Valentine's Day, and there's a bouquet of purple flowers on her windowsill. Not wolfsbane: tulips the colour of ripe plums, perfectly wrapped in a white silken ribbon. She knows she should throw them in the trash, but they end up in a vase on the dresser, an apology carefully positioned between photos of her pack.

-

She does her reading: astral dynamics and psychic bonding. Stiles isn't the only one who can research, thank you very much.

Eventually, buried somewhere deep in the pages of the most archaic text, she finds the answer she's looking for. The next time she meets Peter's eyes across the loft, she smiles.

 

 

7\. _i falter where i firmly trod_

She smiles across the loft and his gut twists, _fight or flight_.

-

She sits in the library and reads a treatise on how to kill creatures of the night. It's as if he's reading the words over her shoulder.

-

 _Out of sight, out of mind_ , except that's harder to do than he thought. He's reminded of her regularly; stupid things, like a slick of pink lipstick or the smell of perfume or a sly smile. She seems to be everywhere he looks, a laugh here, a flash of red hair there.

So this is what going crazy feels like, he thinks with a grin.

-

There's a thin line, purple-red, around his throat, from where the garrotte was twisted tight in the hands of a mad English teacher.

-

He can feel her on his skin, taste her on his tongue. Some mornings he wakes to the patter of water on his skin as she showers. Other days he opens the fridge to drink deep from the carton of juice to quench her thirst. If he writes grocery lists the page ends up covered in algebra and chemical equations.

He dreams of her almost every night, lying beside him, wrapped in his bedclothes, sheets a dark cocoon around her pale skin. She brushes her fingers across his chest, runs her lips along the curve of his jaw. His skin sings at her touch.

When he kisses her, she bites his lip. He wakes with the taste of blood in his mouth.

-

He knows the Darach's not dead. So he goes hunting and, lo and behold, there she is, crawling towards that god-awful stump that's been haunting his dreams for a while now.

Everyone else suffers, she says, but you come out on top.

He snarls at her and puts his claws through her throat. He tells himself it's for him, for the pack. But really it's for Lydia, as it always is; as it always will be.

-

They are a matched pair: sunlight, moonlight; day, night.

-

What's happening? He asks.

It's your own fault, she says.

-

The full moon rises and he runs. Deeper and deeper into the forest, amongst the monstrous forms of tilting trees. She finds him, of course, somewhere in the darkness as a storm brews above them. He sees her in flashes of lightening. Her ethereal beauty. Her hair a halo of fire. Her eyes glowing blue.

Peter, she says and holds out her hand.

The wind drags him into her waiting arms.

**Author's Note:**

> Sections titles are from the following:  
> 1\. William Blake, _The Little Girl Lost_  
>  2\. Robert Frost, _A Boundless Moment_  
>  3\. Emily Dickinson, _A Bird Came Down_  
>  4\. William Wordsworth, _A Flower Garden at Coleorton Hall_  
>  5\. Elizabeth Barrett Browning, _A Curse for a Nation_  
>  6\. William Butler Yeats, _A First Confession_  
>  7\. Alfred Lord Tennyson, _In Memoriam A.H.H._


End file.
